Unmaking Hunter Kennedy (5 page)

“It was cold this morning. And I’ve only got a thin undershirt on under here,” Vere moaned. “I can’t take it off.”

“Do it.”

“No. I’m not the half-naked-at-school type. Give me your awesome shirt, and you walk around in
your
underwear. I swear, Jenna, my head is actually spinning in the opposite direction of the rest of my body.”

Vere sighed and laid her head on her hands, wishing for a breeze to blow through the long row of open windows. Not one branch, not one needle moved on the pine trees shading their lunch quad outside. Just looking at the motionless trees made her body temperature jump another ten degrees.

Jenna was right. The hoodie had to come off.

Because if it didn’t, she’d pass out in front of everyone. She’d get wheeled out of here on a stretcher.

And wouldn’t that be the perfect way for me, the infamous Vere Roth, to begin my junior year?

Incident Number Two: Knocks HERSELF out.

No. No. No.

5: crazy ain’t sexy

HUNTER

“Hunter. We’re at the airport.”

Hunter jerked awake. He’d forced himself to sleep for the long ride. Sleep (or pretending to sleep) is what he did when he didn’t want to deal with shit. And that’s what this ride had been.

Complete. Shit.

Closing his eyes was also easier than ‘not talking’ to his mom. Safer than instigating a fight too. He yawned and stretched, acting like he still didn’t care that she’d refused to talk to him. Not at Falconer while she’d ruined his hair color, and not once on this whole damn drive had she attempted to wake him. He tried to bait her again, hoping she’d slip up and say something.

“What’s next in your psycho, ridiculous plan?” “Put on this hat. We can’t let one strand of your new hair show,” she said, her voice was as closed as her shuttered expression.

“Why? The dark color kind of makes my eyes pop, don’t ya think?” Hunter’s attempts at careless sounding quips had come out in frog croaks.

Worse, his throat tried to close completely when he realized there was a huge crowd of press waiting where the limo had parked.

Really?

His mom watched while he put on the white knit skate cap, then she tucked away every strand of his new hair. “Do not let this hat slip or the whole plan could be blown. You aren’t officially in disguise yet. Okay?”

“You and
this
,” he gestured to the crowd outside, “suck so badly.”

“Just follow my lead. Martin and the guys are waiting. Take these sunglasses and this matching bag, too.” She tossed him a pair of ultra-dark, white-framed
HK
glasses and a poorly made, drawstring pack. With silver glitter all over both accessories.

Hunter was grateful for the glasses because he loved hiding behind any and all dark glasses. He put them on and peered out the window. “Why and
how
did the publicist manage a press conference at this hour
,
at this tiny airport?”

“It’s all part of a bigger plan. Don’t mention Falconer or Colorado. You’ve been in Paris. Okay? That’s all you need to know for now.”

“Okay. Paris. Check.” Hunter’s head pounded from the effort it took to hold his expressions steady; but then he broke. “
Jesus, Mom.
Tell me a little more. I feel like you’re sending me in blind.”

“I am.” His mom’s gaze caught his.

He thought he saw her eyes float a glimpse of regret—or sadness—or
what
? This was definitely an expression he didn’t recognize. She looked almost desperate. He also thought for a moment she might say something real—something that would allow Hunter a chance to break in and plead with her not to go through with this.

The driver opened the door, distracting them both.

“Don’t blow it, Hunter.” Her unrelenting voice turned icier as she went on, “You have no idea how important this is.” She stepped out slowly, acting as though this were some sort of red carpet event.

Hunter followed her lead but couldn’t resist one more dig. “Important? Do you mean important to your bank account?”

She responded so quietly over her shoulder he almost couldn’t hear, “This plan is about you. About me making things right. Just follow along. And for once in your life, please stay quiet. Behave. You don’t believe in me, but I
do
know what’s best.”

“Isn’t it a little late for you to run for
Mother of the Year
?” he muttered.

“Yes. Yes it is.” She froze and looked back, catching and holding his gaze.

Shit. She’s visibly shaking.

Shaking a lot!

Shouldn’t I be the one shaking right now?

“Have a good trip. Please try to stick with the plan. No matter how hard it seems.” Her voice broke. “
Please.
”

He raised his eyebrows as she stalked away.

WTF? Had his mom just agreed with him?

Had she been crying?

Before he could process more, part of Hunter’s entourage
—
his publicist, manager and three hulking bodyguards he didn’t recognize
—
emerged from another waiting limo and moved in around him.

“Hunter!” His agent’s voice shot up from a crowd ahead while his mom’s back was swallowed in the crowd. “Hunter!
This way!
”

Martin, along with his band-mates, Royce and Adam, had been trapped against the windows by a throng of reporters near the entrance. They were wedged in, but safely surrounded by their own bodyguards.

Martin jumped up and down, waving his arms. “
Hunter Kennedy.
We’re over here!”

Hunter recoiled slightly before he caught himself.

His pulse increased as the crowd’s excited energy, plus the eyes and cameras of the greedy press mob, pushed toward him. His closed limo door blocked any retreat.

It took only seconds for Hunter to be engulfed in flashes and the pressing mass of paparazzi. Some he recognized behind their giant lenses and some he didn’t.

He froze and squared his shoulders, hiding another flare of panic. Martin knew Hunter hated to be mobbed, yet it never stopped the guy from flagging the press onto him.

Hunter forced his expression into one of practiced, cool nonchalance.

Follow along and behave.

And of course, remember to breathe.

“
Hunter! Hunter Kennedy! Hunter!
This way. Turn this way,” a man shouted. “
Hunter!
”

Another voice, this time a woman’s, called out from the clicking, shoving press-mob. “When did you return from Paris? How long were you there?”

Hunter smiled his biggest grin. At least these bastards still didn’t seem to have a clue as to where he’d really been.

A plus.

He busied himself with his silver pack as though he hadn’t heard any one question.

“Is that outfit one of the new
HK Originals?
”

Hunter knew that was safe to answer. “Yeah. Check the new shoes.”

The photographers immediately aimed their cameras down and took shots of the matching freak-shows as though they were rare art objects.

“
Hunter, Hunter
, turn around. Just one shot, this way. Here! Here!
Hunter!
” Hunter turned, posed, smiled and turned back.

“Guys!” Martin shouted again. His louder-than-life, New York accent carried over the crowd. “Let him pass through to the rest of the band so we can get inside. We’ll give you all a chance at some good shots and maybe a
meet-and-greet
before we go through security.”

The photographers parted, and Hunter headed toward Martin, Royce and Adam. They both sported similar, ridiculous, white outfits with silver accessories.

They looked tense, tired. And as sparkly-stupid as he did. As they made their way inside, Hunter tried to loosen them up. “Nice wardrobe, snowflakes. Do your boxers itch as much as mine?”

Royce glowered, apparently not amused, but Adam shot him a wry, almost apologetic smile.

Before either could respond further, a number of new onlookers saw the chaos and crowded around as well, halting their progress.

The new people were mostly curious airport staff and tired looking executives. Business CEOs with private jets and early commuters were not their target market.

At this hour of the morning, their core fans—high-school and college kids—would be fast asleep, and not at the Van Nuys Regional Airport, located just outside Los Angeles.

This meant they were not going to be suffocated by a mass of random, screaming, crying girls either.

A second plus.

After all his time alone inside the quiet rooms of
Falconer,
Hunter was not ready to face any screaming. And, even on a good day, crying girls simply terrified him.

Martin looked more than pleased with the press coverage.

Normally, Hunter tried to avoid all photographers and gossip parasites, but he didn’t want to screw this up.
GuardeRobe
probably needed to get some catch-up shots to compensate for his absence.

Hunter wanted to make it all right—make the guys and Martin understand he was fully on board. If they had some sort of a plan in motion, messing up in front of cameras would mean sudden death. So, he worked to play his part.

Along with the guys, he smiled, took off his sunglasses, signed a few autographs, flirted with the cameras and avoided the odd questions about Paris.

Royce and Adam handled those. Blabbing about how they loved seeing the Eiffel Tower. Royce also answered that Hunter had missed going out much in Paris because of a stomach flu?

Nice cover.

It made perfect sense they would create press halfway across the world to divert the attention from Hunter’s true, lame location.

His vision glazed to a thick fog. Barry had told him over and over that he was
well enough to move on,
but Hunter didn’t feel well enough at the moment. Not even close. He wanted to run back to Falconer and crawl back into the small, silent hospital room he thought he hated.

Shit.

Faces in the crowd pulsed in front of Hunter. He swallowed, yanked down on the knit cap and checked the sleeve cuffs on his hoodie. When the inevitable ‘what are you working on next’ question shot out, Hunter managed another fake grin and pointed to Martin who’d finally joined them.

“
GuardeRobe
is heading back into the studio,” Martin answered, using his smooth-talker voice. “You won’t be seeing much of the band until late spring. They’re about to hop a charter to New York and get to work. We have an album to deliver.”

Hunter vaguely wondered if the guys were really going to be in New York? If so, he figured suffering through his mom’s orchestrated time-out in the boonies seemed a bit less terrible. Martin was a slave-driving ass when they had to pay for studio time. Plus working in a studio required huge concentration and energy. Hunter admitted he might not have either of those on board. Not this week, anyhow. His gaze fogged out more. He broke out into a cold sweat as his thoughts sunk in.

But...wait. If GuardeRobe has studio time lined up in New York, who is going to write their lyrics? I write those.

Has anyone considered that?

Trying not to openly freak, he looked around for his mom.

All signs of her possible
crying-moment
were long gone. She stood far in the background, arms crossed, watching him. A ball of fury swelled in his chest. Why had she kept all these details silent?

He should have insisted. Begged harder.

But he’d been too hung up on pretending he didn’t care. Besides, he’d never had to ask anything before.

People—his mom above all—had always told him everything he needed to know. Told him what to wear, where to go, how to stand, what to eat, when to sing, what to say, and most importantly
what the hell was going on!

Hunter wiped his hand along his pounding left temple. He was bound and determined to play along. He could afford no more mistakes. He had to prove to his mom,
hell
, to all of them, that he was sorry.

This could be his last chance to get these people to believe that. Hunter continuously checked his hat to make sure it stayed low, hiding the damn dyed hair, hoping his mom noticed his efforts.

Within minutes, Martin had deftly pushed the entire group, minus the reporters and the business travelers, through security and into the
Ages Airlines Diamond Club
.

Once sequestered in the back, Martin directed Hunter to get a bite to eat.

Feeling completely hollow and empty, he watched Martin usher his mother and the guys to the far corner of the large room. It was apparent they did not want him in their conversation.

Should I try to eavesdrop?

Hunter hadn’t come up with any excuse to follow them that didn’t involve screaming, yelling and throwing things. That behavior would not help his cause. He’d tried it once at Falconer and ended up with hours of additional therapy couch-time with Barry.

He walked over to grab a plate from a sideboard. Not an easy feat, since his hands were shaking and he could still hardly see straight.